Chapter XII – Painted Black

The ghastly horsemen rode over the mountains – the hills – the plains – through the wrathful forests of the Mire and the swamps where the ground birthed the Agrogors. Then – over the dead stones of the ruined city, the gallop brought the darkness, leaving a trail of yellowed eradicated life of anything green or that dared bring its little palms over it.

The horse screamed with a scratch, nails over boards. It smelled of staleness. Alongside Nuriel – death – the death, rode three more horsemen, destined to raze the old world and give the new one a place dusted into place – freezing. In the distance, the empty ocean eyes of Makalele disturbed by a silhouette. The dark figure paused, took a final puff from his cigar, the smoke curling in defiance before his fingers let it drop. A soft crunch of his western boots. They should have learned. If those city folks were as warm as a straw pillow, like those village folk, I’d be sipping chupacabra’s piss on a sunny beach, with a strong man comfortably perched on my lap.” Azirael – war – and Loranel – famine – barely blinked at their brother’s foolish jest.

Above, a Mockbird flew, chasing the rain, gliding down the wind towards the figure, casting a teasing shadow in the dimming light. It mocked the taller man, though his thoughts were too heavy to catch the bird’s taunt. He noticed it while bothered by old thoughts, the birds’ warnings only a fog in his mind. His steps dragged, unaware of what loomed at the other end of the main street. The horsemen dispersed. He pressed hard on his rings. What is the meaning of this world, when everything just comes and goes, as it wants. And did anyone even like him? Adore him? Remember him. His black hair almost red in the dusk, he walked forward towards revenge. But did it matter and for who? If it was only him, why even bother. He slung his leather jacket over his cold shoulder, to feel the breeze of the closing day. Another day, another dusk. Yet he failed to notice the little bunny with black-tipped ears, quietly following him.

From the stone arches lining the main street, the horsemen jetted in, heavy as boulders yet light as shadows.

Their long-dead horses’ hooves clattered in eerie harmony, circling with screams that faded to whispers. Azirael—War—glanced at Karrigan and snorted, “Look at this guy. I’ve seen scarecrows with more meat on their bones. You sure he’s worth the trouble?”

Makalele chuckled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Trouble? Please. The man’s a walking existential crisis. I bet he’s already thinking about how life is pointless and we’re just here to add some flair to his misery.”

Karrigan froze, each step echoing like a rusted trumpet, half wind and half metal. His snake and wolf tattoos moved across his arms to his back, running away, as he too began to run. Loranel—Famine—leaned back on his horse, smirking. “Let him go, brothers. Man’s already a sorry bag. If he’s looking for meaning, he sure ain’t finding it from us.” The horsemen shared a knowing glance, and then, as if they had somewhere better to be, let Karrigan stumble away into the dusk, his leather jacket barely holding back the evening chill.